Not Your Time
by Tehri
Summary: During WWII, an old friend reminds Arthur that it isn't time for him to leave this world just yet...


**_A/N: ... Yes, it's been ages. I've been struggling a bit with lack of inspiration, and now I'm trying to get back into writing... Anyway, this is all I can give you for now, and it's not even that good. But well, it's something. Also, Azrael (and the mentioned Gabriel) are my characters, and I do not own Hetalia in any way. Just a friendly reminder._**

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><p>Bullets whistled past him as he rushed forward, and then there was suddenly a sharp pain in his chest.<p>

He knew what had happened even before his body began to fail him, but he couldn't help but marvel at how easy it was to take him down nowadays.

_Much too easy_, he thought just as the darkness closed in around him.

A moment later he was there again, watching his own body in the mud; he noted with vague amusement that the look on his face was more annoyed than anything else, as if he had been thinking "oh, not again" when he fell.

Arthur Kirkland sighed quietly and crossed his arms. There wasn't much he could do, actually, more than wait and watch the battlefield.

"Damn Kraut," he growled. "When I get my hands on him..."

"You'll do what? Scold him and take away some things, like last time? This isn't like that time, and you know it."

The voice wasn't unfamiliar; in fact, Arthur had heard it a few times too many. But he turned around, smiling slightly as he saw the familiar person: it looked like a very skinny young man, dressed entirely in what looked like black leather – black pants, black boots, a black shirt, and a long black coat. Even his hair was black, but his skin was white as a sheet, and his eyes seemed to shift between pitch black and blood red. In his bony hand, he carried a large scythe, and a pair of pitch black wings were folded neatly against his back.

"Lovely to see you again, Azrael," said Arthur in a conversational tone, having done this many times before. "I thought you'd be otherwise occupied nowadays."

"Oh, I am." Azrael flashed a feral grin. "But you know I have to do this. 'It's not your time', yada yada." He chuckled. "So, how many times does this make? I think I lost count around the end of the eighteenth century."

Arthur shrugged. He really couldn't claim that he remembered either; in fact, he was rather impressed that Azrael had counted for that long.

"What about the others," he asked. "Have you seen them?"

The other nodded.

"Not _in person_, of course, but yeah, I've seen them," he replied. "Looks like that brat of yours is going all out for this. I have to say, he was quick with this response, I thought he'd wait at least until _you_ fell so that he could play the hero."

The Englishman frowned disapprovingly; while he didn't really like that Alfred had been so late, it hadn't been the boy's fault. But at the same time, Azrael never said what he truly thought.

The dark-clad man laughed and shook his head.

"They're fine," he said. "Worry more about yourself for now, will you?"

Arthur gazed at his body again, sighing quietly when he thought of the pain he'd probably feel once he returned to it. He wasn't very keen on that part, but it had to be done.

"Can we get this over with, then," he grumbled. "I hate this..."

But when he turned his head again, his emerald eyes met his companion's black ones. Azrael's face was suddenly set in a serious and stern mask.

"Not yet," said he. "I have a message for you first."

"I never thought you were asked to deliver messages."

"This time only. I owed Gabriel a favour since he got me out of trouble after the Ripper thing." Dark eyes glanced around, as if to make sure that no one else was there to overhear their little conversation. "'I'm sorry. It's time.'"

"That's it?" Arthur frowned. "Nothing to shed a little light over it?"

"You know perfectly well what he means," muttered Azrael. "Your cherished Empire, Arthur. It's Time. With a big T. It won't go fast, at least Gabe hinted to that it'd take a while, but it's going to break. This world has outgrown the need of Empires." He let out a low chuckle, suddenly smiling again. "If it were up to me, I'd start Reaping you old-timers early, but I guess you're lucky. You'll lose your grip on the world, but you'll live. And so will the others."

Arthur clenched his fists and closed his eyes. He knew it would happen, but he had hoped that it wouldn't happen _now_.

"Are you sure," he mumbled. "Now? So soon?"

"You've had us on your side for some time, England. Gabriel foresaw this a long time ago, and just before I went down here, he asked me to find you and tell you that it's going to happen now." He waved around with his hand. "But not before this shit is over. Look, I'm already overstepping my boundaries here, I was only asked to give you those four words and let you ponder for a while, and he said you'd know what it meant. But now you've made me explain it all anyway, so let's just get you back in your body, okay?" He placed his hand on the Englishman's shoulder. "It's not your time, Arthur. Not yet. The world still needs England."

Although he ought to feel worried when he felt the bony hand touch him, Arthur could only smile faintly and nod; a moment later, the world disappeared behind a veil of grey, and a sharp pain shot through him again. He moaned loudly and squirmed, only to feel a pair of hands grab him and drag him away.

"Jesus, Iggy, what the fuck!" Alfred...? "Oh fuck, oh fuck...! Don't die on me, old man, come on, I know you're alive, I can feel your pulse...! Wake up, dammit! Come on! England!"

Arthur opened his eyes, and found himself staring into a pair of familiar cerulean eyes that seemed to flicker between the wound on his chest and his face.

"What the hell are you doing here, America," he said hoarsely. "You're not supposed to be here..."

"Well, damn, where do you think I'd be? Someone's gotta look after you, you know."

The Englishman attempted to move his arm to swat at the American, but every movement made him feel like he had just been crushed by several huge rocks. Alfred quickly tore open his mentor's uniform and began to examine the wound.

"Jesus," he gasped again. "How the fuck are you even alive..." He blinked and shook his head. "No, wait, I think I know a better question. How are you _conscious_?"

Arthur smiled weakly and attempted a shrug. Bad. It hurt.

"Strength through adversity," he said. "I don't know how deep in the bullet is, but maybe you can get it out..."

"Iggy, I don't have anything to pull it out with..."

"Use your fingers then, git. And don't give me that look, of course it will hurt. That's fine. I just need to get it out, and the pain might convince me that I'm really going to live."

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><p>Some decades later, Arthur was strolling through St. James's Park in London in late July, humming softly to himself. Since the weather was so good, he had decided that he'd better get out of the house for a while, and a walk through his beloved city would do him good. But as he approached the lake, he spotted a very familiar figure standing there with a paper bag in his hand, every now and then picking up a piece of bread and throwing it to the ducks. The figure was clearly a very skinny pale man dressed in black leather, and once Arthur got closer, Azrael turned his head and grinned at him.<p>

"Not a word about feeding the ducks," he warned. "Just needed something to do, okay?"

The Englishman chuckled softly.

"Not a word," he promised. "Good to see you, by the way, though I must say that I hadn't expected to see you like this."

"Eh." The pale man shrugged. "I'm just taking a little break. We all are, actually, if you feel like visiting."

"I think I'll pass. Come on now, why are you here?"

"Fine, fine. Just wanted to check on you. You haven't, you know, 'been in the danger zone' for a while, so I wanted to see what you were up to." A quick shrug. "Not that I care, or anything."

Arthur smiled.

"Of course you don't..."

"I'm still lurking around the corner and waiting for you to snuff it."

"I'm strangely comfortable with that."


End file.
